


A Noble Soul

by taoroo



Series: The Bonds of Brotherhood [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: But everything works out in the end, Corporal Punishment, Fluff and Angst, Just a little side story, My oc's get a bit lost, Sort Of, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-24 19:43:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13818132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taoroo/pseuds/taoroo
Summary: After the events contained within "Endurance", Antionne struggles with his new position, until he finds himself in an old one.





	1. Chapter 1

"I bet you're damn pleased with yourself, aren't you lad?"

Antionne maintained eye contact with Captain Treville, unflinching. In fact, he _was_ proud of himself, but to let his smugness show would have been to invite more trouble than it was wise.

Treville watched him, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed to an impressive glower.  "You'll be pleased to know that the Cardinal demanded your immediate demotion, which I had no choice but to agree to. The fact that you remain in service of the king at all is thanks only to your status, what little grace of it remains."

Antionne said nothing, allowing no reaction to break through his carefully neutral expression.

Treville sat back with a disgusted sigh. "Report to the armoury for your duties, private. Go on. Get out of my sight."

The disappointment in Treville's voice was almost enough to elicit a twinge of shame, but this was overwhelmed by the relief of Antionne's... well, his relief. He snapped a crisp salute and strode toward the door.

"You better wipe that shiteating grin of your face before you get to Gaspard, lad." Treville warned in a voice that was barely above a growl. "I might have finished with you, but he certainly has not."

Antionne's steps faltered at that. Ah yes, the quartermaster. This would not be pleasant.

 

oOo

 

Antionne steeled himself before the armoury door before entering. He'd borne the looks and whispers of the men as he’d crossed the courtyard, knowing that he was in disgrace. But thank God they no longer saluted him. _That_ would have been harder to bear.

Gaspard was sharpening a sword upon the grindstone when Antionne entered. The intensity at which he laboured and his knotted brow spoke ill for his mood. The previous Quatermaster, Gauthier, had quietly refused his reinstatement following Jussac's departure, preferring to retire with handsome severance instead. Gaspard had then taken command of the armoury and had settled into the role admirably. Antionne envied the man his ability to take on the new responsibilities in his stride. _That_ was not a quality that Anitonne shared, which he had quite thoroughly set out to prove with last night's debacle.

"Reporting for duty, sir," he said, throwing up another linen-crisp salute. He absolutely did not tremble.

His mentor paid him no mind for a long, uncomfortable minute. Antionne found his eyes wandering, straying inevitably to the cupboard behind the Quatermaster’s desk where he knew the strap was kept. Gaspard had made him oil it after the last time, sitting upon his burning rear for a full hour before his mentor had been satisfied.

That had been before his promotion, of course. Before Antionne's life had entered its living hell. Only Athos had dared to strike him since, a memory that still had him blushing, a hot lance of fire racing from his backside to his squirming gut.

"The ostler's boy is sick," Gaspard said, eyes still in his blade. "You will take his place until he returns."

Antionne stood frozen unable to fathom a reply.

When he had stood there for near a full minute Gaspard grunted sourly. “Was there anything else?"

What could he say? I'm sorry? He wasn't, not in the slightest. He had deliberately provoked the red guard into a brawl in order to achieve this very end, of course he was not sorry. Not even a little. He had done so in full expectation of reprisal from his captain and mentor. He admitted privately that he even deserved it, if only a very little. But this indifference...

Antionne took a deep breath. He snapped his heels together, bowing his head stiffly. Why did his eyes sting so? And why was his chest tight as if a heavy weight were pressing upon his heart? The fire must be burning damp logs. Fresh air would solve that problem.

Antionne burst from the armoury, nearly colliding with a pair of musketeers. Stepping away he doffed his hat, pulling it over his glassy eyes and muttering an apology before striding swiftly away.

"Didn't take long for Gaspard to get hold of him," he heard one remark to the other.

"Are you surprised?" The other replied. "He brought shame on us all."

Face burning, Antionne fought hard to resist the urge to correct the two, biting upon his lip hard enough for blood to draw. But what could he say? They were right in one matter at least: he had shamed the regiment with his selfish brawl. That they believed him to have been physically punished for the deed along with his demotion would soothe their ruffled feathers at least. He pushed away that cowardly thought, however. Let them hate him, he deserved it. Gaspard at least thought so.


	2. Chapter 2

Antionne glared at the rake in his hands. To be fair, it wasn't the rakes fault that he had been stuck in his onerous work for a full week, without any training or musketeer duties. It wasn’t the rake’s fault that his hands were blistered and he smelt like horse, or that he laid awake at night picking straw out of his hair, trying not to think of Gaspard and the man’s refusal to even meet his eyes at table.

The rest of the men, bless their kind and generous souls, had long since forgiven him, though he was still subject to the odd cold shoulder or less-than-good-natured jostle when leaving parade. Some, d’Artagnan mainly, had even drawing him into conversation, keeping the topics neutral and away from subjects of red guards and demotions, or how he smelt of horse.

He finished piling the dirty straw into the corner, glad that his work was done for the day, though the long evening that stretched out before him gave him little comfort. Before his promotion he would have joined his peers to drink and play cards, or sat in the commons room and listened to the stories of the elder musketeers. Whilst in his position as Lieutenant he had fallen into exhausted sleep directly after the evening meal, or had stayed in his room, worrying and drinking until dawn. He had not yet worked up the courage to seek out the other younger musketeers, and his presence in the commons was met with disapproval from the elders, and a distancing as if he was surrounded by a moat of ice.

He glanced down at his sweat- and mud-stained shirt, aware that he stank of hard labour. A bath then, and another night in his room, reading.

The bathhouse of the garrison was little more than a room with two baths and a few washing stools. The fires were always stoked there, the last visitor filling the buckets of water that stood over them for the next. With any luck it would be empty, the majority of the men gone to the taverns to spend their week’s wage.

Antionne opened the door to a peal of laughter. Damn.

“Ah, I shall return later,” he tried to say but a gruff voice stopped him.

“Never mind that, lad,” Porthos said, slapping the boy on a shoulder as he pulled on his braies. “I’m done here and d’Art’ could do with someone keeping him from drowning.”

“I am here!” Aramis said indignantly.

“It was only a small blow to the head,” d’Artagnan objected too, in a voice that suggested it had not been the first time. “Really Porthos, you mother as bad as a hen.”

“Concussions ain’t to be taken light,” Porthos said, jabbing a finger toward the man in the tub with mock severity, “and you,” he pointed to Aramis who sat on a stool, comb in hand, “are far too bothered gettin’ the mud out of your fancy locks to pay attention.”

Antionne watched the exchange in bemusement. “You were in a fight, I take it?” he said, allowing Porthos to hustle him inside.

“Hardly,” Aramis said with a roll of his eyes.

“A patrol just outside the city walls,” d’Artagnan supplied. “Some petty thugs thought to jump us. It didn’t go well for them.”

“Still managed to knock you on your arse, didn’t they?” Porthos rumbled with a chuckle. “Too busy thinking about a certain lady instead of payin’ attention.” He raised an eyebrow at d’Artagnan, who chuckled and blushed good naturedly. “…At least we all got to see Aramis wrestling in the mud like a pig in shite.”

“Yes, thank heaven we did not miss _that_ ,” Aramis grunted sourly. His comb snagged in a burl and he swore, eloquently.

“I’ll go meet our glorious leader and grab some grub an’ wine,” Porthos said, tugging on the last of his clean clothes. “See you dandies out there.”

“Dandy,” d’Artagnan scoffed as the man slipped out of the doorway, “Just because some think themselves clean just towelling off after that. I’d like to see him pass up soaking his muscles if he had been the one wrestling a giant.”

“The man was barely six feet tall,” Aramis said, distractedly as he tugged at another knot. “Pass me the hair oils, would you, dear boy,” he said to Antionne, holding out his hand without looking over to him.

Antionne hurried to obey. Then, seeing the water over the fire was steaming, he began to fill the second bath for his own ablutions. As he passed by Aramis the man wrinkled his nose.

“You smell like horse.”

Antionne flushed. “I’ve been working in the stables,” he mumbled, focusing on the bath.

“Still?” Aramis snorted, ignoring the looks that d’Artagnan was shooting him. “Remind me never to get on Gaspard’s bad graces. You would have thought a thrashing along with the demotion would have been more than enough.”

Antionne clenched his jaw, biting back his reply. He heard d’Artagnan snap some sort of admonishment, and Aramis’s injured retort, but blocked out the words, focusing instead on undressing. The steam was stinging his eyes. He hurriedly began to climb into the bath.

“Well, perhaps he didn’t whip you hard enough.” He heard Aramis say and belatedly realised the man had been watching him and his unmarked backside. Shame flooded over him and he ducked his head forward, letting his hair fall to cover his flaming face.

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan said in a hushed, offended hiss.

“What?”

“I think your hair is clean enough.”

Huffing and complaining at the clear dismissal, Aramis mercifully relented, and soon the bathhouse was quiet, the only sound the bubble of the water heating in the buckets.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan said after a long, awkward pause. “Aramis’s sharp tongue gets the better of him sometimes. For someone who doesn’t like being humiliated he’s quick to pass it on to others.”

“It’s alright,” Antionne said quietly. “I deserve it, after all.”

“We all know why you did what you did,” d’Artagnan said. “I don’t blame you myself. I certainly don’t think you should still be held accountable for it, especially after you’ve been disciplined.”

“I—!” Antionne snapped back the sharp retort, sucking in a deep breath and then letting it out. “…I haven’t…” he said, blushing furiously, sinking into the water until his frown was obscured beneath.

“Haven’t wh—oh.”

The silence was heavy. Antionne bit his lip and refused to meet the boring gaze he could feel from his fellow recruit, or the pity it contained.

After a while d’Artagnan made his excuses and left. Antionne refused to turn and face him. After a while, with the water turning cold about him, he left the bathhouse, heading for the main gate and a tavern beyond.


	3. Chapter 3

Antionne stood, as steadily as his aching head allowed, and stared at the wall. This time he could not meet Treville’s eyes, or those of Gaspard’s, who stood to attention beside him. He tried not to wince at the brightness of the light, drink and a few too many punches to the head making it ache abominably. His lip was split and swollen, his knuckles in a similar state, the callouses that he had grown in his week of labour cracked and crusted with blood. He’d had no time to neaten his appearance, woken from his drunken slumber with orders to present himself to Treville five minutes previously. His clothes were rumpled from being fought and slept in, and his hat was badly dented.

He could feel the anger radiate from Gaspard. The man had not met his eyes when he had entered, standing stiffly, mouth locked in a frown.

Swallowing down his dread and mortification, Antionne pressed his eyes tightly closed and then re-affixed his gaze on Treville’s wall.

The Captain cleared his throat gruffly. “To say that I am disappointed,” he began, his voice low enough to be a snarl, “is an understatement.”

Antionne knew better than to speak. His head and stomach both vied for attention, sickness mixing with heavy anxiety.

“I had thought the matter sorted after the last time, but it seems my faith in you was sorely misplaced.” There was a creaking as Treville rose from his seat. “You failed in your duties as a musketeer, and in the responsibilities you were given. I expected better of you.”

Antionne clenched his jaw, fighting against dropping his gaze to the floor, his face flaming in mortification.

There was a deep sigh from the Captain.

“It’s only thanks to the quick actions of Athos and Porthos that no-one was killed in last night’s brawl,” he said. “The Cardinal is rightfully demanding a dismissal. Given your record until this point, I’m giving you the chance to leave before you’re pushed.”

_Leave the Musketeers?_ Antionne fought hard to keep the contents of his stomach where it was. It was no more than he deserved of course, but to end his short term amongst the Musketeers in such ignominious circumstances was more than his pride could bear. That Treville was giving him the chance to resign his commission and so avoid the shame of dismissal spoke of the Captain’s remarkable forbearance.

He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the man beside him.

“Thank you, sir,” said Gaspard, giving a stiff salute.

Antionne watched in mounting horror as Treville rounded the table, taking the pauldron that Gaspard held out to him. It was only as the man made to take his leave that Antionne snapped out of his stupor.

“Wait…” he croaked, turning wide eyes to his mentor and then Treville. “What do you mean? Captain it was I who—”

“Silence!” Treville barked. “I’ll get to you next, lad.”

Antionne gaped at the two men, watching in anguish as Gaspard gave a final bow and left the office. When he was gone, Antionne whirled to Treville.

“Captain, this isn’t right! I was—”

“I said,” Treville snapped, stepping close to the boy so that their noses almost touched. “Be. Silent.”

Antionne clamped his jaw closed, swallowing back his protest.

Treville’s eyes narrowed but he stepped away, walking back to sit behind his desk. “You’re a mess, boy. Had Porthos and Athos not sought you out last night you’d likely be dead. I don’t know what the hell you were thinking taking three damn red guards on single handed but it stops now, do I make myself clear?”

Antionne realised the man was expecting a verbal reply, but when he opened his mouth he found himself saying:

“The fault was mine, sir. I should be the one—”

“What did you think would happen?” Treville cut him off. He leant forward on his desk, hands clenched before him, expression grim. “Gaspard was you mentor. He failed in his duty to you and has paid the price.”

“You must reinstate him, I shall resign my commission.”

“You shall bloody not,” Treville growled. “And if you give me one more order lad, I’ll have you flogged.”

Antionne clenched his fists tightly, glaring back at the Captain with as much insolence as he dared. Treville was unfazed.

“You think resigning will do Gaspard any good? You want to make it up to him, then you work hard and stop acting like a spoiled bloody brat.”

The anger drained out of Antionne like a wound, replaced by shame that pricked at his eyes.

“Get yourself cleaned up and report to the tower for your watch duty,” he heard Treville say, “from now on you shall report to Porthos as your new mentor. I suggest you do not disappoint _him._ You won’t find him lacking when it comes to your discipline.”

 

oOo

 

Antionne paused as the door to the Captain’s office shut behind him. He took a deep breath, pressing his eyes tightly closed, fighting for composure. When he opened them he spied d’Artagnan, hovering nervously at the top of the stairs.

Grinding his teeth tightly together, Antionne marched past him, ignoring d’Artagnan as he attempted to stay his path.

“Antionne…”

“Leave me alone, farm boy.” Antionne snarled but was pulled up short by a tight grip on his arm.

“I had no choice,” d’Artagnan said, sombrely. “I had to tell Athos, and if I hadn’t—”

Antionne wrenched his arm away, pulling the man off balance. “If you hadn’t then Gaspard would still be in his rightful place here,” he snarled.

“And you would likely be dead,” the boy pointed out, frowning.

Antionne fixed him with a deadly serious glare.

“Better that than this,” he said, walking away.


	4. Chapter 4

It was hours later. The guard watch had been a long and lonely one, giving Antionne plenty of time for dark introspection. Shunning the evening meal as readily as his brothers shunned him, he made his way out into the Paris streets, eager to be away from the scene of his disgrace. He had never before felt so utterly lost and dejected, or so much in need of a friendly face. Not having the stomach for a tavern, and with little other choice, he found himself walking to his grandfather’s estate. His grandfather was at his country estates, so the chances of a hot meal or warm room were unlikely, but at least he would be away from the judgement of his peers and the coldness of his barrack rooms. Had he been there Antionne was certain the Marquis’ reaction to his recent behaviour would not have been pleasant. He had proven, yet again, to be a disappointment, as unworthy of his title as his father had been.

The butler seemed not at all surprised to see him but asked no questions, for which Antionne was thankful. He refused the offer of wine or a meal, knowing he didn’t have the stomach for it. After stripping of his heavy coat and weapons, and feeling better for it, he headed for François’ study, hoping for the peace it had always brought him.

Opening the door he was surprised to find the room occupied, his grandfather standing at the desk with another man, their attention on a map on the table.

“Grandfather, I did not think you were in residence,” Antionne apologised with a bow. He made to leave before the man could question his arrival and so discover his disgrace, but then stood frozen when he realised who his grandfather’s guest was.

“Ah, Antionne, my boy. A pleasure to see you,” François smiled as he crossed the room to place a hand upon his grandson’s shoulder. He surveyed Antionne’s injuries with a raised brow, taking his chin and tilting his head from one side to the other. For his part, Antionne stayed staring at Gaspard, who had remained at the desk, watching him calmly.

François released Antionne’s chin with a light chuckle. He grasped the boy’s shoulder once more in a firm grip as if he might bolt at any moment as he was sorely tempted to try. “You have met my retainer, I believe? I shall soon travel to London and found myself in need of a bodyguard, I am not so young as I once was, after all.” Looking between the two men he saw their gazes locked, and gave a thin smile.

“I must see to my servant’s packing and make arrangements to leave. We shall reconvene after supper,” he said to Gaspard. “You will stay for the meal,” he said to Antionne, the order clear, who meekly agreed for want of any excuse.

With that the elder d’Melliour gave a businesslike nod to the pair and left the room.

“London?” Antionne repeated when they were alone.

“Your grandfather has been tasked with a delicate matter by the king,” Gaspard said, folding his arms and resting against the table’s edge, his gaze fixed on the young musketeer. “For all their barbarity the English still respect the rank of nobility. I shall accompany the Marquis on his mission.”

“This…” Antionne fumbled. “How long has this been planned?”

“You think that it was by design that I left my previous position?” Gaspard asked, brows raising in that way Antionne had come to know and dread. “I am sorry to inform you, young sir, but it was by accident alone. I found myself without employ, and it was Treville who directed me here just this morning.”

Antionne wilted. It had been a brief hope, but for a moment his guilt had been lifted, even if only a little. Now it came crashing back down, with an intensity that brought tears to his eyes.

“I…” he stammered, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Sir, I am…” his throat closed and he floundered, unable to summon his words.

He flinched when he felt hands on his upper arms but eagerly followed as Gaspard drew him further into the room.

“Come, young sir,” he heard the man say, voice gruffly stern, “we have some unfinished business, you and I.”

A grateful sob bubbled up from deep inside Antionne’s chest, and he nodded, scattering a few tears as he stumbled after the man to a long divan beside the window. He did not resist as he was drawn down, to splay across the man’s lap, or when his legs were carefully locked between Gaspard’s own. The moment that he was in position an overwhelming feeling of rightness settled over him, like a warm blanket, the knot in his heart loosening in sundering relief.

“It is I who must apologise, young sir,” Gaspard said above him, smoothing a rough hand over the boy’s lower back, “I allowed my anger and my disappointment to rule my good sense, and left you sorely lacking. It is a failure that as a mentor I cannot pardon, I only hope that I can make amends now.”

Antionne drew breath to speak, but it was driven from him with the intensity that Gaspard struck him. Save for a few well-deserved swats during his mentorship, Antionne had not been disciplined in such a way by the man before, the leather of the strap Gaspard’s preferred method of correction. Now his hand fell with devastating skill, so hard that it drove the air from his lungs. Ten such swats were laid in quick succession, covering the entirety of his backside and upper thighs.

Merciful God, but if this continued Antionne did not know how he could bear it! He gasped a silent scream, shocked so greatly that his tears halted, the wetness on his cheeks scattering with the force of the blows. His hands clenched reflexively, grasping fistfuls of Gaspard’s trouserleg in an effort to bear the overwhelming feeling of domination that the man was exerting over him. It was a protective sensation, like no other he had ever experienced: an almost instinctual knowledge that the man above him was in total control. It was a trust that Gaspard knew what was best for him, could soothe the raging tumult of his emotions and reduce his fears into a single, searing focus.

_Dear God how he had missed this_ _._

Antionne squeezed his eyes tightly shut at that revelation, shame and revulsion flooding his chest. _What a disgusting creature he was. He had driven this man away by his selfish actions, had dishonoured his brothers, and disappointed the man whom he admired most in the world, and yet here he was, seeking comfort from that same man. It was beyond pitiful. He deserved none of this_.

“No!” he shouted, pushing and kicking to be free of the man. It must have come as a surprise to Gaspard because he almost succeeded, teetering very close to falling from the man’s legs. A moment later and Gaspard had him in hand once more, his legs tightening their grip on Antionne’s own and his arm tugging the boy securely to his belly.

“Hold there, lad, we’re only just begun.”

“No!” Antionne snarled again. _What did he have to do to make this man see sense?_ “No, let me go! You… you are no longer my mentor. You have no right to—”

Another round of vicious swats had him gasping for air, unable to continue.

“Do not presume to tell me what to do, brat,” Gaspard said, the lightness of his tone conflicting with his harsh words. “You have earned this punishment twice over. You have no say in this.”

Antionne sucked in breath for a reply but yelped as he was pushed forward, feeling the skin over his backside and upper thighs stretch taught and in perfect striking range.

_Oh no._

Gaspard’s hand landed squarely upon the crease where thigh and bottom met, the sensitive skin there blossoming instantly with a prickling heat. Five times it landed in the same spot, covering both cheeks more like a paddle than just a hand. The blows were methodical, slow enough that the sting of one had fully registered before the next fell. With each one Antionne jerked forward, and by the last the fight had been driven from him, leaving only soreness behind.

“Please,” he whimpered, dropping his head so that his hair covered his tear-dripping face. “I do not deserve—AH!”

“No more talking, young brat.”

There was that word again. The one Gaspard used whenever Antionne forgot himself and slipped back into his previous – well, _bratty_ – behaviour. It shrank him, washing away pride until all that was left was the humility beneath. _Antionne truly was an irredeemable brat, hopelessly selfish and lacking in even the good grace to suffer his punishment without struggle_. As the shame flooded him, he drew in a deep breath and grit his teeth, vowing to keep silent for the remainder, and to give this noble man no more trouble than he already had.

Gaspard grunted and Antionne felt himself lifted back into place, the man’s hand returning to the fullness of his backside; hardly an improvement but a relief all the same. The blows slowed to a steady rhythm, the force less than before but still enough to command his full attention. Antionne focussed on maintaining his composure, willing his legs not to kick and his chest not to buck. He caught his lip in his teeth, gnawing at the already abused flesh to distract from the pain, his nostrils flaring as his breath became steadily more ragged.

There was a thoughtful sound above him.

“If you do not cease your self-injury, brat, then I’ll take my belt to you.”

Surprised and chagrined that he had been discovered, Antionne spat out his swollen lip with a snarl. “I hardly think my welfare should be any of your concern, _monsieur_.” He yelped again as the intensity of the swats increased, his second hand flying to the man’s leg and gripping tightly above the first.

“Do not presume to tell me who I care about, brat,” Gaspard growled. “I shall not have you surviving last night’s folly just to continue your injurious behaviour now. And whilst we’re on the subject—” A volley of slaps to the thighs were swiftly administered, leaving Antionne gasping. “—Should you be under the impression that endangering yourself when not on official Musketeer business is in any way acceptable, remember what shall happen when I get my hands on you.”

“But you…” Antionne started, the words caught in another sob. He brought his arm up to grasp his shoulder, cradling his face in the elbow’s crook. “You won’t be there. It’s all my fault,” he sniffed into his sleeve.

“Do you think your new mentor will be any less forgiving?” Gaspard asked after a brief pause.

Antionne gulped, thinking of Porthos. The man had never raised his hand to him before, but judging by the tactile manner in which he treated the other inseparables, particularly d’Artagnan – whether it be a pat on the back or a clip around the ear – he guessed he would not be in for an easy time.

Gaspard had stopped his assault at that question, his hand resting to rub gentle circles on Antionne’s lower back.

“I may no longer be your mentor,” he said gruffly, “but I still hold you in my regard, lad. I would not wish any harm to come to you.”

Antionne scoffed. “How can you say that?” he demanded, pushing himself up on his arms to glare back at the man. “After all I have done? I… I _shamed_ you.” He looked away, unable to keep meeting Gaspard’s eyes, muttering, “I shamed all of you. I am a coward and a fool.”

He felt Gaspard’s body stiffen and instinctively braced for the swats that began to fall once more.

“The only fool here is me,” Gaspard said after a long, painful pause, in a tone that brooked no argument. His hand continued to rise and fall as he spoke, a pattern of blows from one cheek to the other, starting at their crest and working methodically down to the tops of his thighs, then back up, burning over already scorched flesh.

“I knew that you were too young for your command, yet I foolishly persisted in encouraging you to continue. I thought that somehow enough blind faith would compensate for decades of military experience. Experience you did not have. I ignored the way the men doubted you, pretended not to see how you were treated, isolated. When you found a way to leave the command against my wishes I was angry. I rejected you and forced you into further isolation.”  
“You didn’t force me to fight those red guards,” Antionne stuttered, but his words were weak and without anger. Fresh tears were falling, the truth of the words cutting through his resolve.

“What other course of action was open to you?” Gaspard demanded, the swats lightening a little, the time between each one lengthening as the man rested his hot palm on the boy’s hotter backside. “I should have been there for you but I wasn’t. That is my sin to bear. It doesn’t excuse your actions, but it does explain them. Treville knew that, so did Athos and Porthos, even d’Artagnan knew that the blame lay on me.”

Finally Gaspard’s hand stopped, settling upon Antionne’s burning rump and rubbing lightly in a manner that should not have been as soothing as it was. Antionne sobbed, head buried in his arm as the hands clenched the man’s clothing. His chest heaved, lungs tight and burning, his whole body trembling with fatigue. He fought to compose himself but found it impossible, fat tears refusing to stem, spilling out from his eyes in a shameful torrent. Gaspard’s hand released it’s hold of his waist, coming to pat and card softly though his hair and his weeping intensified even as he clung to these last vestiges of comfort.

After a little while, with his tears showing no sign of subsiding, Antionne felt Gaspard move. He clung in panic to the man’s leg, in no means ready to leave his lap, dignity be damned. Gentle hands prised his fingers free, pulling him about but drawing him closer until he was flush with Gaspard’s chest, his head encouraged into the crook of the man’s neck. He clutched desperately at the shirt before him, rubbing his face in a vein effort to halt the flow of tears, confused and mortified by his actions but unable to retreat from such a comforting position.

“There’s one more thing we have to clear up, it seems,” Gaspard was saying above him.

A hand came up and Antionne found his chin being taken in a soft but firm gasp, tilted until his red-raw eyes met those of his former-mentor. The man’s expression was gently earnest, his mouth grimly serious. “I may no longer be your mentor, as far as the Musketeers goes, but that doesn’t mean that you are free from my regard.”

“I don’t—” Antionne began but silenced as Gaspard shushed him.

“What I’m saying, young brat, is that you can’t get rid of me that easily,” he said. “If I should discover, on my return from England, that you have acted in a manner unbecoming of a Musketeer, no matter how minor the offence, then you will answer to me as you have just now.”

Antionne sucked in a sharp breath, his tears halting as suddenly as they had started. “You would not,” he said warily.

“Do not presume to tell me what to do, brat,” Gaspard repeated his earlier words sternly, but then his face softened a touch. “You hold a place in my heart, Antionne, one that can’t be moved by distance or time. I promise you that I will never again leave you wanting for my attention.”

Antionne stared at Gaspard in open-mouthed amazement, trying to process those honest and loving words. Then his eyes misted and his lip trembled and he flung himself forward, wrapping his arms about the man’s neck and sobbing into his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

Treville sat in his chair and regarded the young man in front of him with some scrutiny. It made a pleasant change to have the lad in his office for a reason other than a dressing-down, the reason both surprising and pleasing him. He kept both emotions from showing on his stern face, however. The boy deserved to sweat a little.

Antionne shifted minutely, though Treville wondered whether his discomfort stemmed from the current long silence following his request, or from his recent thrashing. Gaspard had been quite thorough, Treville guessed, given the stiff way that the lad walked, despite trying his hardest not to let it show.

“Let me understand this,” he said, keeping his voice firm and level. “In the last two weeks you have twice brawled with the red guards, shown gross insubordination, and acted disgracefully in a manner unbecoming of a Musketeer, and now you want a _promotion_?

If possible Antionne straightened his posture even further. “Not a promotion, sir, not as such.” He drew a breath, fixing his earnest young eyes on the Captain, “I’m asking you for a chance to redeem myself, to prove my worth.”

Treville grunted, leaning back in his chair and resting his knitted fingers across what he was beginning to accept what the start of a paunch. Time marched on and years spent more often behind a desk than on the field were beginning to catch up with him. A glum thought for such a bright summer’s day.

“You think you deserve that chance, son?” he asked bluntly.

Antionne flinched but did not break his stare. “Honestly? No, sir. But I’m hoping you will anyway.”

Treville cocked a brow at that. He let the silence drag on. To his credit, the boy remained steady under his gaze.

“One month,” he said eventually. “ _If_ you can maintain the armoury and still perform all your duties as a recruit, including training, and _if_ you keep yourself out of trouble for the entire month, then we’ll revisit the matter.” He held up a hand before Antionne could express his gratitude. “We’ll be keeping a close eye on you, d’Melliour. If by month’s end Porthos or I don’t think you’re up to scratch, I’ll give the position of quartermaster to someone more deserving.”

Antionne worked hard to control his expression, relief and pride fighting to break through the serious mask. He snapped a perfect salute, wincing only a little when his backside reminded him of its presence.

“Thank you, sir.”

“One month, lad,” Treville said, “don’t let us down.”

“Yes, sir,” Antionne said firmly, and Treville could tell the boy knew exactly to whom he was referring.

He rose as the door shut behind the boy, walking to the window and watching as Antionne hurried down the stairs. He met d’Artagnan at the bottom, and though he couldn’t hear the excited exchange their tone and d’Artagnan’s cheerful embrace were words enough.

Treville smiled to himself. Gaspard was turning out to be a far better father than Henri had ever been.


End file.
